The
Earth is But a Wasteland
Soulless
homes dwelt in by empty natives
The dust
of corps’ litters the air
The
silence is interrupted by slight waves of flickering energy
The
sounds of cold sentience going about its hateful life
A car
engine rumbles
Over a
road carved from remnants taken from a wound in the earth
A new
gash opens in the dusty film of oil mine
Black
blood spews forth from the abused seabed
For it
has long since been beaten into submission
The
carcass of an iron deposit is left torn open
Its
sacred internals are shipped away
To be
formulated into vast clockwork
Soon to tarnish new horizons
Foreign
lands are even now being cut
By lonely
organic machines
Programmed to continue wandering and
damaging
This now
silent world.
A
stranger breaks the silence
Dissecting
A logical
disassembly
Cold and
hard
A
lifeless misinterpretation
Did a
poet pour forth his soul for us to cut it apart?
Has
society deformed to this split print?
The value of the poem is not enclosed in the notes.
The fire
of a life that is filled with things that I despise
Engulfs
me as I walk through
The palette of greys cut by only hot white foulness
The mist
is parted by a soft glow
That of
true life
The light of love pierces a film of distaste
A line of
love scratched onto a scarcely excising world gives meaning to blank
My frail
empathy in purple flowing textile bass
Connected
to a beautiful soul
Creation
Lost,
deep within the storm of society
A citizen
is inspired
An idea
surfaces to the top of the pool of chaos
The
conformance of everyday life is interrupted by the idea
The
person’s order of life takes a new priority
You stop,
you: citizen no more
Conform
no more
Sit and
breathe
Grasp
your medium
Breath
Lay forth
your plan
Begin
The
outside world falls from beneath you
The
universe is limited to the room
The
building in which you dwell, gone, mattering… not
Infinity
is contained in the distance between pencil and paper
Your past
is gone now
The time
that crossed you matters only in how it affects you now
Memories
to dust
Your
friends: shavings of gold
Your
possessions: chips of lead
Your
family: fragments of diamond
You stop,
life form, no more
Shake
free from the bindings of physical form
Nearly
finished in your transcendence
You have
been worn down by yourself
The idea
is a sea of self that has worn
away all
that you were
The shore
is gone now all that is left is the idea
Developing
a life of its own you nourish it
One mark
at a time, a million thoughts made immortal
Liberated
from the waters of the mind
Good
Morning
The sky
fades to pink
Man
stretches upright
The first
rays of light dance over the horizon
Man claps
stones in celebration
The sun
peaks over
To see
man’s invention
Beams
play over the leaves on the hillside
Man cuts
down the tree to feed the abomination
The
star’s luminesce caress
Cannot
mend the fire of man
The
midnight of humanity must come early
Tears
of a black angle
Fip Fip
Fip clack
The
yellowed cards of time crack on the desk of reality
Dust
swirls around the ultimate gamble
White
gloved hands shuffle the ivory fates
A six
year old boy bounces happily beside his mother
They
brows the Persian marketplace
Fip, the
patter of the deck moving
“I am
sorry” mutters death
The boy
walks alone to his parents funeral
The skull
twists into a frown
It must
make a move
Snap, a
lone piece slaps the grain
A woman
wins the lottery
The
glimmer of hope in the empty eye sockets
Dies as
the woman kicks a homeless crone
Drawn
from the pack of millions:
Eight,
dead, today
The deck
is cut: civil war
The blood
of brothers runs from red hearts
A cold
clap fortells a sharpened spade
Plunged
into soon cold flesh on the moon
Red and
black
Love and
death
Woven
into the laylines of existence
Tears
fall over yellowed bone
A thousand
cries of agony reply
Sunlight
comes and goes and the game goes on
Suffering
life drags itself over time
But long
after them fate will suffer and cry over his forced crimes
And on,
unto eternity
Fip. Fip…
snap, fip, crack.
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